The sect was never silent. Beneath the chants in the training halls, beneath the clash of sparring blades, deeper currents always flowed—currents of ambition, suspicion, and schemes whispered in corners.
Joren's rise had not gone unnoticed by his peers. Where elders praised, disciples plotted. Some sought to attach themselves to his growing influence; others resented his arrogance but dared not challenge him openly. He became a beacon, and with every beacon came shadows eager to see it dimmed.
Kaelen, for his part, embraced his role as the unnoticed. He fetched water, scrubbed floors, endured Thalen's boasting and Mira's timid smiles, all while quietly sharpening his edge in the dead of night.
But invisibility was never perfect. Even shadows left traces.
—
In the scroll archive, Kaelen lingered one evening longer than his chores required. His fingers brushed against jade slips, his gaze drinking in diagrams of Qi circulation. He had no right to study them, no status to claim such knowledge, but his eyes traced every line, every path. His Insight burned painfully, but the patterns etched themselves into his memory.
A soft cough broke the silence.
"You shouldn't be here."
Kaelen turned slowly. A senior disciple, robed in crimson, regarded him with narrowed eyes. She was known to orbit Elder Hiran, one of Joren's vocal supporters.
"I was sent to clean," Kaelen replied evenly.
Her gaze lingered on him, then flicked toward the slips. For a heartbeat, Kaelen thought she would expose him. Instead, she smirked.
"Clean faster. Some places aren't meant for your kind."
She left, her footsteps echoing. The warning was clear: Kaelen's shadow was thinner than he thought.
—
Politics sharpened in the training grounds. Groups of disciples began to cluster, drawn to promising leaders. Joren's camp swelled daily, bolstered by those who craved the protection of his rising serpent. Others rallied quietly behind different names, forming small rival circles.
Kaelen remained alone, though occasionally Mira lingered near him, unsure whether to follow Thalen's loud ambition or Kaelen's quiet steadiness.
Whispers floated around Kaelen now—not of promise, but of mockery.
"The faint serpent boy."
"Why hasn't he quit yet?"
"Maybe he enjoys fetching water."
He bore them without flinching. Every insult was fuel, every slight another weight added to the coiling strength within.
—
One night, Kaelen crossed paths with Joren in the courtyard. Torches threw long shadows across the stone, and Joren was not alone. Two followers flanked him, smirks ready.
"You hide well," Joren said, voice smooth. "But shadows can't hide forever."
Kaelen met his gaze calmly. "Better a shadow than a torch that burns too fast."
The remark drew sharp laughter from Joren's lackeys. Joren's smirk froze for a moment, then widened.
"You'll regret those words when the sect trials come. Pray your faint serpent can keep up."
They left with mocking chuckles, but Kaelen lingered, the night air cold around him. His serpent stirred faintly within, its silver sheen now undeniable in his Soul Palace.
The sect was a crucible, and its flames burned hottest not in missions or wars, but in the rivalries stoked within its walls. Kaelen could feel it: something was building.
The currents of politics were rising. Soon, the tide would sweep them all.